The Hanged Man

by K. D. Edwards

  More interesting was watching Quinn’s face as certain things were said. He appeared politely interested in the colorful madness and dancelike movements of some adherents of the Revelry, Lord Fool’s court. He smiled as a group of Lady World’s people came by with flower pots sprouting poinsettias in fast-forward motion.

  But Quinn grew quiet as a were-panther and were-wolf snarled at each other, while hints of their animal forms morphed across their bodies in their spitting rage. The schism between shape-shifting cats and wolves was getting a lot of attention in the press.

  And his smile faltered altogether as we passed a group of people with picket signs, arguing for the release of Juror Waylan, a Convocation representative recently arrested on corruption charges.

  I tucked those details away. They weren’t part of Today; they just had the faint stench of the sort of Tomorrow you got by hanging around a prophet.

  The daylight pandemonium thinned as we approached a set of marble stairs padded in inch-thick red carpeting. Members of the guarda stood at the foot, bristling with weapons and attitude.

  I held up a hand, and my friends stopped behind me: Brand, Max, Addam, and Quinn. We’d left the others at the hospital under Corinne and Diana’s aggressive protection.

  “You seem to be in my way,” I told the guards pleasantly. “Your name?”

  “AnaÏca, my lord. I’m a lieutenant guarda captain for the Convocation.” The woman had three yellow eyes—two on her face, and one tattooed to her wrist. She smelled strongly of plain, clean soap.

  “Hello, AnaÏca. I will pass now.”

  “I’m sorry, Lord Sun, but the Arcanum meets,” she said, still unruffled. “Sitting members only, I’ve been told. We can find you a private suite to wait.”

  “Wait,” I said, tasting the word.

  Brand said, “Get the fuck out of our way, or I will literally kick you so hard that your descendants will have a birthmark in the shape of a bruise.”

  Addam put a hand on Brand’s shoulder—which earned him a furious look—so Addam turned it into a pat. He said to the woman, who was just smiling at Brand, “Lord Sun is the reason the Arcanum meets.”

  That finally gave her a little pause. She frowned at me and said, “I’m sorry, Lord Sun, we received word from the Arcanum that they had other matters to deliberate before your audience.”

  “Did you,” I said. Someone was trying to stick a finger in the middle of my domino chain. “But now—right now, in this very moment—you’re receiving word, from me, that you should move aside. Which order will you follow, I wonder.”

  “My lord, I—”

  “Good grief!” Ciaran said, sweeping down the stairway. There was a sealed garment bag across one arm. The startled guards turned to face him as he said to me, “Put a little gas in it. We’re about to get started. Oh, hello, AnaÏca. Love the new tattoo.”

  “I, that is, we were told—” she said, finally disoriented.

  Ciaran pushed the garment bag into the crook of his arm, turned over his hand, and offered the guarda his wrist. A gleaming silver ward burned there, reddening the skin around it. A spark of magic enclosed in a circle: the symbol of the Hex Throne.

  “I’m about the Magician’s business,” Ciaran said airily. “No time to turn you into frogs and newts, dearies. Sun?”

  And it was that easy. We all trudged past the line of bowing guards, up the carpeted stairs.

  We kept our silence—well, I kept my silence, while Ciaran filled the void with some aimless, non-specific chatter—until we had a measure of privacy in the cold, undecorated marble hallway above us.

  “Not sure where to start, Ciaran,” I said finally. “But thank you. I thought you were staying in Spain?”

  “I was, but I kept having such dreams of you, Sun, even after we spoke. And I’m not talking about the ones with the pearl strands and hockey stick. No, these were more like true-seeings. I think the next few hours will be most entertaining.”

  We unabashedly paused to size each other up. Ciaran was wearing a rather conservative outfit, a blue and crimson three-piece affair that tug-of-warred between a business suit and runway fashion. His blue hair was perfectly styled, and he’d added a crescent of earrings to one ear. Light rippled across his eyes, a rolling sheen of magic.

  Ciaran was less complimentary. “Bars and banks, Rune,” he said. “What are you wearing? You smell like Velcro and polyester blend. Do try harder.”

  “It’s simple and elegant,” I said defensively. “And not fussy. I hate fussy clothing. Fussy clothing looks ridiculous on people after they’re done gutting monsters or crawling through sewers.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps you can save your fun to-do list for later. This is the Arcanum.” He smiled behind me. “Sweetness.”

  Quinn squeezed between Brand and me and threw himself at Ciaran. “You tricked me!” he said. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “We’re very good poker players, you and I,” Ciaran said, and ruffled Quinn’s cowlick, which sprang back up. “And look at all of you! It seems you’ve emptied the entire tree house for this field trip.”

  Addam shook his hand. Brand gave a gruff nod. Max tried to give a gruff nod, too, but it came off as nervous. Max was never sure where he stood with anyone outside our immediate circle.

  I broke up the greetings. “Lord Magician marked you,” I said. “That’s new.”

  “Lord Magician did not mark me. He owes me favors, not the other way around. This allows me access to the festivities. And his symbol matches my jewelry.”

  I changed subjects. “Do you think the Hanged Man is trying to block my access?” I asked.

  “Delay it, at best. He’ll be putting worms in people’s ears, no doubt. We’ll need to hurry after we deal with your clothing.”

  “Please don’t tell me you expect me to wear whatever is in that garment bag.”

  “It’s rude to turn down presents. But first,” he said, and reached up to touch the sleeve of my shirt. The rippling light in his eyes flared white.

  Ciaran operated as a principality—a very powerful, freelance Arcana, of sorts—with an affinity for dreams and wild magic. I’ve known his powers to have an unpredictable effect on reality. I’ve seen him change wood to brass; plaid to paisley; and the color of a theater usher’s eyes, in one extremely uncomfortable situation. But I’ve never known him to be able to do it deliberately.

  The colors of my shirt and pants shifted—a shimmer of colors that didn’t so much brighten as shift into different, shadowy colors. Moments later my pants were a deep garnet color. My shirt was a blackish umber.

  They were the color of my father’s throne.

  “Oh,” I said. “This isn’t bad.”

  And then the second wave of magic hit. The pants dug into my balls, the cloth made some tearing sound as it slithered and tightened under my armpits. “Godsdamnit,” I said, realizing I was now wearing official court pants, as tight as Addam’s.

  “Don’t you get stroppy with me,” Ciaran said. “I’ve already thought ahead. Can’t have you holding your hands in front of your crotch all day.” He unzipped the garment bag and pulled out a cape.

  It was less the sort of thing a superhero would wear; more a Roman centurion. The colors mixed crimson and coal. The symbol of Sun Throne—a flare of fire in a closed circle—was sewn on the breast.

  “Oh,” I said again, as he fastened it around my neck. I think the chain was solid gold.

  “Does it have pockets for weapons?” Brand asked.

  “This isn’t our first rodeo together,” Ciaran tskked. “I just wish I had time to do something with that hair. Most people don’t grow bangs just so they have something to tug on, Sun.”

  The cape went over one shoulder and under the other. Addam smoothed the shirt of the bare shoulder, and smiled at me.

  Ciaran tapped a cigarette out of a silver case and began field stripping it. Permission to smoke in the Convocation was directly proportionate to your ability to defend your smoking ins
trument. “Come children,” Ciaran said, lighting the tip with a purple zippo. He waved us and his smoke down the hallway. “We still need to yield our weapons.”

  Brand tensed next to me. This was one of the things about my plan that bothered him most. I saw it more as a mutual deterrent. No one was allowed weapons or sigils in the inner chambers, including those people who were set to use them against me.

  Ciaran led us to the weapons checkpoint, where a series of cubicles was shielded for privacy. Ciaran and Addam went first. Max hesitated a second to whisper, “I like your hair,” and then ducked into the third booth.

  There was only one booth left. I nodded at Brand, who shook his head no and looked at Quinn. I gave him my please look. He bit down on a scowl and went into the booth.

  As soon as Quinn and I were alone, all of the oxygen escaped me in a long, slow hiss, and I gave my nerves a moment to clamor. The closer I got to the Arcanum, the less room I had to maneuver. This was happening. This was really happening.

  “Do you know what I’m going to do?” I asked Quinn quietly.

  He stared at me for a long, long moment. Direct questions like that made him unhappy. They were a clear admission that he always knew more than he let on. But he and I had done this dance before. In some ways, I understood him even better than Addam. I knew what it was like to stack the deck too.

  “Yes,” Quinn said. “Mostly. But there’s still time to zig instead of zag.”

  “Quinn, tell me this. When you look ahead . . . Most of the time . . . It doesn’t get better, does it? The bad guys only get scarier, don’t they? The risks only get higher, don’t they?”

  “You know they do.”

  I nodded to myself, and swallowed. “Then what needs to happen isn’t just about the Hanged Man. It’s about whoever is standing behind the Hanged Man. And whoever is standing behind them, and them, and them. There is no peace in my future, is there?”

  Quinn gave me a sad look, and then shoved himself into a hug.

  “So there’s really no zigging, is there,” I whispered. “Are you sure you want to go inside with me? It was stupid of me not to have asked you earlier. I shouldn’t assume. You should decide on your own if you want to plant yourself as my ally.”

  “I’ve decided more times than you can imagine,” he said. “Even that time when Max was my archenemy. It’s always more interesting following you. And you’ll always need me.”

  Since I would, I accepted his friendship for what it meant, and hugged him back.

  The privacy booths were meant for one person, but Brand was my Companion, and I wanted him at my side.

  I stepped in behind him as the Convocation guard was sorting through what appeared to be every weapon Brand owned. He was giving the woman his most innocent expression.

  “And this?” she said, holding up a tube.

  “My eczema cream,” he said.

  She set it in a pile opposite the knives, darts, and gun cartridges.

  “And this?” she said, holding up a zipped leather booklet.

  “My diary,” he said.

  She unzipped it, saw paper, and shrugged.

  Since he was human, he didn’t get the magical dampening bracelet that was soon fastened on my wrist. I yielded all eight of my sigils. In anticipation of it, I’d already unfastened the gold anklet chain, as well as the metal circle threaded through the leather band I usually tied around my thigh. I saw the woman’s eyes linger on the circle in puzzled surprise, though she was far too disciplined to comment on it. Not every sigil was shaped like a ring or pendant. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, especially when it came to magic cock rings.

  The dampening bracelet wasn’t as thorough as a null zone. It’d keep me from calling on sigil spells and cantrips, but my bloodline had deeper magic. Still, my breath stuttered a bit as I put the last sigil—my mother’s cameo necklace—in the bombproof container.

  “We will return these when you leave the Arcanum’s private floor,” the woman said, in the even tones of repetition. “While they remain in our custody, they will be protected with our lives.”

  “Thank you,” I said, as she stepped aside to let us through the other door of the privacy cubicle.

  On my way out, I murmured, “Eczema cream and a diary. Which one explodes?”

  “That’s an awful thing to say,” Brand told me, still maintaining his innocent face. “You’re always making hurtful accusations. This is why I need a diary.”

  “You know, there are some rules you really need to follow.”

  He blew a raspberry at me.

  The others were waiting for us. Quinn, whose sigils were all strung along a single belt and thus easily yielded, was close behind.

  “Ready Freddy, are we?” Ciaran said, clapping his hands. “Let’s hurry. I want some of the popcorn before the butter gets cold.”

  The hallway before us was simple and bare, but mined from the most expensive marble in the world. Magic had played along the architecture, smoothing the seams and rounding the angles. It made me think, not quite comfortably, about the throat of a great stone beast.

  “The Iconsgison is just ahead,” Ciaran murmured. “Are we entering with you right away?”

  “You want to enter with me?” I asked.

  “Quite so.”

  “Ciaran,” I said. “You’ll be making a statement. You know that, right?”

  “So serious,” he said, straightening his sleeves. “I’d think you’d be grateful. There are those in that room who owe me favors. It might come in handy.”

  “I have no doubt. And it would be an honor to have you at my side, if you’re sure.”

  “Who needs a safe and comfortable life? Onwards, Saint John.”

  We were barely a dozen yards from the door to the Arcanum’s meeting room when the next obstacle arose.

  The antechamber entrance—two immense wooden doors, gilded in gold, as tall as a river troll—opened, and Jirvan exited with two armored guards. Lord Hanged Man’s scarred seneschal stopped. I’d wondered when I’d be seeing him again.

  “There’s nothing you need to say that I need to hear now,” I told him. “Step aside.”

  “Lord Hanged Man has requested an ad hoc item for the agenda,” Jirvan said. “The Arcanum will remain in closed session until he’s done.”

  “That does sound like something he might want to do,” I agreed. “But it would require a vote, and given the reason we’re here today, I don’t imagine he’ll get it. How about we duck in and see?”

  “I have my instructions,” Jirvan said.

  “I thought your instructions were to bring Max to the Hanged Man?” I waved my hand at my ward. “Here he is.”

  Jirvan stared at me, his eyes clear and white in the mess of burn scars. His expression seemed largely resigned.

  “I’m sorry,” Jirvan said quietly. “I have new directives. Please, Lord Sun. This morning could go very, very, very badly. It’s not too late.”

  “I believe it is.”

  “I see.” Jirvan looked at the guards. “Lord Hanged Man wishes a private moment with his fellow Arcana. You have your orders.”

  Ciaran swept forward and touched the sleeves of both guards. Their clothing—shirts, scale mail, trousers—turned to solid bronze. They slammed to the ground with a clank.

  “Mind your manners, love,” Ciaran said.

  Jirvan looked past him, at me. “The Hanged Man looks most vulnerable only when his teeth are at your throat. Please think this through, Lord Sun.”

  It was a startling admission, and didn’t seem to be in the best interests of Lord Hanged Man. If I had more time, I’d stop and listen; but the clock was about to run out.

  We walked past him. Brand took three steps ahead of me—not-exactly-accidentally kicking one of the guards in the head—to open the door.

  We entered the Iconsgison, the twenty-two-sided audience chamber of the Arcanum.

  The chamber was made from jade and sapphire—a planet’s priceless treasure of gemstone, magical
ly smoothed into tiles. It had a domed roof of solid marble, and twenty-two platforms, filled with real people or flickering projections. Not every Arcana had been on the island when the call went out for the assembly. Others, though local, found that a virtual presence was enough to sate their curiosity.

  The Lovers pedestal remained empty, as it likely had since the raid that dismantled their court. For all I knew, the chamber would be renamed if the twenty-second number was lessened forever. It had happened before. They’d once numbered twenty-three, before the Hourglass Throne—the court of Time—was erased from history. Time magic was a sore point, which I would gratefully be pressing on soon.

  The pedestals for the Empress and Emperor were empty, as they’d been since the Atlantean War. The Emperor’s court had remained sealed and unfilled since his death, and the Empress was long, long estranged from our refugee city on Nantucket.

  But the Magician was there, along with Lady World, Lord Chariot, and Lady Death. Lord Tower had a seat to the right hand of Lord Judgment, the current head of the Arcanum.

  The power bloc known as the Moral Certainties was there: Lady Justice, Lady Tolerance, Lord Strength, and the Hermit. I’d co-opted two of their sons, currently standing behind me, and been intimately involved in the deaths of two others and the exile of another. That said, I’d also saved them from a fatal loss of reputation—after four children in their direct lines broke Arcanum law—and they owed me.

  The Celestials—another power bloc, once led by my father—had a space on the left side of the room. Lady Moon was a renowned recluse. Her projection wasn’t even human, just a simulacrum of a moon in a circle shining from behind a silvery cloud bank. And, of course, Lord Star wasn’t here. How could he be? He was known as the Anchorite, and had been bricked in an underground vault for a very long time.

  Lady Priestess, the head of the Papess Throne, was there, robed in white. She stood by the grinning figure of the motley Fool.

  The Hierophant was there in person. I’d accidentally taken advantage of guest privileges in his Westlands compound a few months back. His generosity had been retroactively approved, along with an oblique warning to keep my mouth shut about what I’d seen in the manor house.